


PseudoPrince

by suitesamba



Series: ProtoSnape [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Point of View, Fandom Trumps Hate, Fandom Trumps Hate 2019, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Humor, M/M, Wizarding Action Figures, genfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 05:33:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20773367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: Severus Snape is not-quite-dead. He's living under Polyjuice, watching more than participating in the Wizarding World. But when Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes adds Headmaster Severus Snape to its Wizarding Heroes Action Figures line, he very much wants to have a say in how he is portrayed to armies of grubby children manhandling his person. And to do this, he faces a battle of words with the Toy Master himself, Harry Potter.





	PseudoPrince

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the Fandom Trumps Hate 2019 auction for bidder drinkingcocoa who requested a Severus-centric story. She gave me a number of excellent prompts (and I think she should be in charge of all prompt-fests from here forward), at least one of which I'll be pursuing at a later date,. But I settled on the retelling of one of her favorites of mine - ProtoSnape - from Severus' point of view. I'd like to say that either of them could be read first or independently, but I really think you'll enjoy them more if you read ProtoSnape first and then come back for PseudoPrince. I've connected the stories in a series, so you'll be able to easily navigate from one to the other. 
> 
> I really enjoyed the opportunity to write this, and to work with drinkingcocoa who gave me all the time I needed without pressure, and for that I am incredibly grateful. And now - to post this and get back to my long-negected WIP...
> 
> A billiion thanks to my trusty beta and idea-woman accioslash and to badgerlady for her SPaG and britpik.

Albert Prince, Jr. had exactly five years to enjoy the tidy sum of money his cousin Severus Snape had willed him before the dead man knocked on his door to ask a favour.

Prince hadn’t been especially close to his cousin – to his second cousin, to be more precise. The fact was that the two had never actually met, though Prince had contacted Snape at Hogwarts a time or two as he diligently worked on his pet hobby of tracing the Prince line back to the days of the Founders. Severus had responded formally but not personably, providing the information Albert requested but showing no interest in the least in his project.

Thus, it came as a great surprise to Albert to find that he’d inherited his cousin’s estate, which consisted of a small pile of gold and, the real prize, his Hogwarts pension. Albert would enjoy that income boost for the remainder of his natural life. As the months passed after the demise of Voldemort, Albert followed from afar from the safety of his flat in Paris. When the dust finally settled, his cousin had been awarded a posthumous Order of Merlin and was widely regarded as a tragic figure, redeemed by his final destruction.

But a hero? To some, perhaps. Most were happy to recognise his contribution to Voldemort’s destruction with a nod and to go on with their hero-worship of the Boy-Who-Lived-Again.

Albert frowned at the lack of attention Snape seemed to spark and decided that at the very least, his cousin Severus deserved his own chapter in the family history book.

He worked on that book rather diligently for the next few years, using some of his new income to travel to England and Scotland. He visited the tiny house at Spinner’s End and photographed its sad façade and was given a tour of Snape’s old dungeon quarters at Hogwarts only days before the suite was gutted and remodeled for the incoming Potions Professor.

When Severus Snape knocked on his door on Rue de les Chiens, a sensible and not-very-ostentatious street in a neighborhood filled with all sorts of boring folk just like him, Albert took one look at him and gave a great sigh.

“I thought as much,” he said, his English slightly affected with a French accent. “Come in, come in.”

The Princes were generally not given to great shows of emotion. They were also an astute lot, and Albert Prince could readily see the scarred neck and distinctive features that could belong only to Severus Snape. 

“How did you do it?” he asked as he led the way to his sitting room. “A potion, of course, and some help from the house-elves?”

“Precisely.” Severus looked pleased with his cousin’s conclusions. “And don’t be concerned – I plan to stay dead. I don’t need or want the pension or the gold. I’m here to make a request on an entirely different matter.”

He sat in the chair his cousin indicated. He seemed quite at home in the simple surroundings, and politely accepted the offer of brandy.

After a few minutes of quiet sipping, Albert cleared his throat. He sincerely disliked being put out and was hoping to get this over with quickly and go back to his peaceful research. “So – a request.” 

Severus lowered his glass carefully and arranged it on the coaster Albert had placed on the table beside him. He cleared his throat in turn. “Sometime in the next few years, you will be contacted by a company called “Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes” of Diagon Alley. They will want your permission to create an action figure in my image.”

“Action figure?” Albert furrowed his brow.

“A miniature replica of my person,” Severus explained patiently. “Part of a series of modern wizarding heroes. Half of the sales proceeds are donated to the charity of the family’s choice. When you are approached – and be forewarned that the person contacting you will likely be Harry Potter – I ask that you forward all correspondence to me and, following that initial contact, act as go-between. I wish to remain as I currently am – deceased and invisible.”

Albert Prince’s brandy glass had frozen midway to his mouth at the mention of Harry Potter. He cleared his throat again – it was a virtual symphony of throat clearing in the sitting room – and nearly sputtered. 

“Harry Potter, you said?”

An odd look crossed Severus’ face. Albert couldn’t say if it was irritated, or fond, or even a bit sinister.

“Indeed,” Severus said, picking up his glass again and taking another satisfied sip. “The Boy Who Bloody Well Lived Again.”

ooOOOoo

The problem with long-term use of Polyjuice had nothing to do with side-affects of the potion or stress to one’s organs and bones from the magical shaping and reshaping. The problem was that if one was impersonating a particular person, one had to have continued access to that person over a long period of time to keep up with the aging process.

The Muggle who’d accepted fifty quid from Severus some years ago for a thick plait of his hair was of his own height and build, but quite a bit older. It was a calculated risk – enough individual hairs to last a lifetime, and just old enough that he’d probably not look too different in a dozen years. At least the similar build ensured that he wasn’t strangled by suddenly too-small clothing as he morphed from himself to his alter ego and back again.

He had no trouble securing the Potions Master position at Slug and Jiggers. Potions Masters were scarce and Severus Snape knew his stuff. When old Selonius Slug decided to sell the shop a year later, Severus emptied the secret vault Albus had left him and bought the shop himself.

Blood money, Severus had always thought as he purposefully ignored the vault. Thank-you-for-agreeing-to-kill-me money. 

If he was being uncharitable, he made no apologies. Albus was dead and didn’t need the money himself. And Severus had agreed to kill him, hadn’t he? 

So Simon Birch emerged from the shadows to hang an “Under New Management” sign on the shop door, then hired a sharp middle-aged witch with an abundance of business acumen to run the place, allowing him to fade right back into the shadows again and concentrate on the brewing.

And in the shadows was exactly where he was on the day the Albus Dumbledore action figure was released by Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. The figure was unveiled in a ceremony on Diagon Alley just outside the joke shop. The street was crowded as witches and wizards jostled to get closer to the podium, but Severus held his spot in a shadowed doorway and waited.

Waited for Harry Potter to appear.

Merlin had the boy surprised him. Twenty-three years old and not married, not an Auror, and no longer playing Quidditch. What’s more, he was staying out of the limelight, though that just seemed to make his occasional appearances even more prone to the sort of fan adoration hoopla currently on display.

If he wasn’t dead, he’d murder Aberforth for keeping this project under wraps. When word had finally hit the press only a week ago that Albus Dumbledore would be immortalized by the Weasley brothers’ joke shop as a wizarding action figure, Severus had been briefly incensed. Despite his tenuous relationship with the old man – and the nature and outcome of their last meeting – he was intimately acquainted with the devilish minds of children, and with the brilliant but slightly insane mind of George Weasley, and imagined that any figure sold by a joke shop would have questionable features or accessories. A hand that withers and falls off, for example, or a tattoo of a phoenix on a hairless plastic chest. Children would pair him up with their Barbies – sadly, those, too, had invaded the wizarding world – and stage mock weddings, totally oblivious of the fact that Albus would have thrown Barbie over in a trice for Ken. 

But when the _Quibbler_ had published an exclusive interview with the mastermind behind the concept, Severus had an entire new set of worries to occupy the countless hours he spent brewing in his locked laboratory inside Slug and Jiggers.

Phrases floated through his brain, interrupting his measurements and stir counts, wreaking havoc on the Pepper-up he was preparing for the Ministry’s employee clinic, one of his most lucrative contracts.

_The first of a planned series._

_People who touched my life, who are no longer with us._

_Heroes, even the unconventional ones._

_Two each year._

_A close family member, if we can find one._

_A portion of the proceeds to the charity of their choice._

Shit shit and shit.

Why, oh why, did it have to be Harry Potter? he asked himself.

_Because it’s _always_ Harry Potter._

Potter who came off as sincere, honest and even humble in the _Quibbler_ interview.

Potter who would never put a withered hand on Albus Dumbledore or a Phoenix tattoo on his chest.

Whose adoration of Dumbledore would likely not fail even if he knew that his hero and role model preferred Ken to Barbie.

Albus, that is. _That_ hero and role model.

Potter, who must have appeared somewhere because the crowd was applauding and feet were stomping and a chant began to rise up.

“Har – ry! Har – ry! Har – ry!”

Oh Merlin - _this_ was why he stayed dead.

It took a few minutes for Potter to make his way through the crowd to the podium, and a few more for the chants and clapping and feet stomping to die down. Even shielded as he was in the shadowy doorway, Severus had a fairly unrestricted view of Potter’s tousled head. He stood beside George Weasley and it was Weasley who cast the first Sonorus.

Severus reached into his robes and extracted a worn pair of omnioculars. He’d found a pair left behind in a classroom the year after the Quidditch World Cup and had pocketed them. Careless students. They’d proven to be dead useful in his spying career, even after it ended with his supposed death.

Potter’s face zoomed into view as he lifted the omnioculars to his eyes. 

Oh. Well then.

How long had it been since he’d actually _seen_ Potter? Four years? Five?

He twisted a knob to zoom in on Potter’s eyes. Same green, but something was off. Tiny creases at the corners, tightening even now. Softer eyes in a relaxed face that laughed often.

He zoomed out a notch and saw that Potter was smiling. He lifted a hand, almost tentatively, and waved to the crowd. Severus winced as applause rose around him and nearly deafened him.

Weasley had just introduced his partner, and Potter stepped forward and cast his own Sonorus.

“Wow,” he said, looking around with an easy smile. “Just…wow.”

More applause. A _lot_ more applause.

“I didn’t expect this,” he said.

Severus believed him.

No. Stupid stupid stupid. It was a practiced speech. No one could be that disingenuous.

“Well, I reckon you’re all here to hear about our new product line.”

Applause, perhaps a bit less enthusiastic, but still enough to bring a grin to the Boy Who Lived Again’s face.

“When I was growing up, my Muggle cousin used to….hey. No. None of that. We’re friends now – it’s all good. Well, better – so – yeah.”

Even Severus had read the cover flaps of Rita Skeeter’s unauthorized biography of Harry Potter and could understand why the crowd had begun to boo at the mention of Potter’s cousin. 

Oh hell. He’d read everything in between those cover flaps too.

“Anyway – Dudley – that’s my cousin – he used to play with action figures. They’re Muggle toys, I suppose, miniature replicas of people or characters in books or games or on the telly. I got the broken ones he didn’t want anymore – No. Hey. It’s good. Made me stronger, yeah?”

His grin was a bit forced, but Severus appreciated the effort. The crowd had begun to chant “Diddy-kins! Diddy-kins! Diddy-kins!” and George stepped in and cut them off.

“Alright – that’s it. None of that or we’ll be here all day and I’ll miss my lunch and Mum’s making her ham and magic bean casserole.”

Riotous applause. Severus swore the crowd was intoxicated. There was no way in the world they’d all sampled that casserole. He had, though, back in those horrid days at Grimmauld Place when Molly’s cooking was the only light in a very dark time.

“Good- we’re good. Right. So – I had kind of a field hospital of misfit toys, missing legs or run over by the lawn mower, but I played with them. I had a make-believe world with flying motorcycles and people that transformed into tigers and I was thinking about that after I joined Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes last year.” He grinned at the cheering that followed his remark and waited for it to die down. “About how much imagination can go into playing with action figures, and I thought about the stories I used to hear about Mad Eye Moody, and about my dad’s friends – the Marauders – and about my parents….” He trailed off a moment, a fond, far-away look in his eye, then cleared his throat. “Sorry – what I mean is that they did such great things – were such great people. They inspired me. They inspired others. But they’re gone now, and a Chocolate Frog card can only go so far to bring them to life for the generations who never knew them.”

Severus’ omnioculars gave him a decided benefit over the rest of the crowd when Potter – finally – pulled out the miniature replica of Albus Dumbledore and held it up. He couldn’t say what he’d expected to see, only that he _hadn’t_ expected those tiny eyes to twinkle right back at him. He dismissed it as a trick of the light.

“You’ll have to come in the shop to get a closer look,” Potter was saying. “We’ve set up displays all around the shop so everyone can have a good look. Order forms are at the counter – remember, he’s available by owl order only. And while some of you make your way inside, I’ll open the floor for a few minutes and answer any questions you might have.”

“Dumbledore is an obvious first choice,” someone called out as the crowd jostled about. “But who’s next?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” Potter responded with a boyish grin, but George elbowed him in the ribs and he quickly added, “Actually, we don’t have a series planned. We’ll have to see how sales of the Dumbledore figure go before we make a go forward decision on who might be next.”

Snape turned away as Potter prattled on, all high-spirits and enthusiasm, suddenly consumed with a vile thought. Who would be next? The tragic Lily Potter or her husband? The werewolf Lupin? The Dog Father? The Weasley twin who’d died with both ears intact? Or some other equally tragic figure – reviled in life but redeemed after death by the efforts of the bloody Boy-Who-Lived?

Oh hell.

ooOOOoo

Two weeks later, Severus took the package from the delivery owl, dispensed to it one standard owl treat, then slammed the window shut and strode over to his breakfast nook. He placed the package to the right of his plate of toast and resolutely ignored it for at least fifteen seconds while he busied himself with thoroughly chewing and swallowing.

Then – and only then – did he allow himself to study the box.

It was shaped very much like a wand box, though a bit larger in height and width. It was wrapped in brown paper and adorned only with the WWW logo of the joke shop, in only slightly garish gold. Neatly wrapped. Corners tight and precisely folded. He prodded it with his wand but…nothing.

He lifted the folded tab at one end of the box, pulling slightly to break the seal, and the package gave a tiny burp and unwrapped itself, revealing a plain black box.

Hmmm. Unexpectedly tasteful so far.

Using two fingers, he removed the lid and placed it to the side.

Albus Dumbledore, with half-moon spectacles, twinkling eyes, dove grey robes and deep purple cape looked up at him from a nest of white velveteen. His nose was exactly as crooked as it had been in life, and his silver beard and hair long enough to tuck into his belt. 

Well fuck a doodle duck.

This was – unexpected.

The detail. The precise scale. The… accessories?

He’d lifted the figure from the box and found, nestled below it, a velveteen draw-string bag. It contained a miniature Fawkes in full plumage, a tiny wand that looked so realistic Severus wanted to give it a shake, and the most miniscule pair of wool socks Severus had ever seen.

He put the bag and its contents aside with a thoughtful look and turned his attention back to the figure itself. He wouldn’t discover the pocket full of teensy weensy sherbet lemons for quite some time.

The cape was easy to remove as the arms swiveled in their sockets and even bent at the elbows. The robes beneath the cape were belted and peeking out beneath them were the toes of familiar black boots. Severus ran a hand over the boots.

Dragon hide. Real dragon hide.

He lifted the robes, not through prurient curiosity, but to see how far the meticulous attention to detail extended. In all honesty, he didn’t know if Albus Dumbledore wore pants or not. Most wizards of his generation didn’t, truth be told, but this was a toy, meant for children.

There were pants.

Old-fashioned, Victorian-era pants with double draw-strings.

He slipped them down to assure himself that Potter hadn’t gone _totally_ overboard. Ah. Good. A molded area with a bit of a bulge, but no bits. The backside, however, was a bit more realistic, with arse crease and all. Not necessarily the bum of a practically ancient wizard, though Severus appreciated that particular lapse.

He packed everything back as he’d found it but left the lid off the box and propped it up against the back of his desk. 

Over the next months, he’d stare at the miniature Albus Dumbledore frequently, and from time to time would address it out loud as he worked on the shop’s books. It became a familiar part of his office décor, and he kept a scrap of parchment in the top drawer of his ornate rolltop with notes such as “pewter” and “thirteen per row” that no one could have deciphered had they found it upon his unfortunate demise.

ooOOOoo

There were times when reading about Harry Potter and his successful wizarding action figure line didn’t deliver the level of information Severus craved.

No. _Needed._ That he needed.

He was annoyed – not hurt – not at all hurt, though – when the Frank Longbottom figure was announced.

He’d attended the unveiling of the Mad Eye Moody figure with less trepidation than he’d felt six months prior at the Dumbledore release, and had purchased the figure soon thereafter. He had an odd soft spot for the gruff old Auror, and had he not been busy with not killing George Weasley at the time, would have gladly offed Mundungus Fletcher instead of Mad Eye.

While the figure wasn’t his favorite, it was hands-down the most fun, or it would have been had Severus actually _had_ fun. Which he most decidedly did not. After the Lupin figure was released, he tied Lupin and James Potter together back to back and set the Mad Eye Figure to marching around them in circle after circle after circle exclaiming “Constant Vigilance!” at intervals timed to the length of a figure-eight stir.

The release of James Potter the spring after Moody was unveiled was no real surprise, and Severus skipped the ceremony altogether, though he did give in and order one for his personal examination and possibly torture. He scowled at the figure in its now familiar white-velveteen lined box and yanked it unceremoniously out, standing it beside Dumbledore to assess proportion. Potter was taller than his son, and truth be told, taller than Severus as well. Severus was sure Harry Potter had exaggerated his height but no, he seemed well-proportioned beside the tall headmaster. He had a wand, of course, and a small stag figurine to represent his Animagus form. Severus examined the stag and then unceremoniously snapped off its antlers.

Severus was interested to see that he was wearing less-Victorian but still old-fashioned pants under his robes. After the initial examination, which included a lot of ill-natured rumbling about the number of Galleons he’d wasted on this purchase, Severus propped the figure up beside Moody and started the countdown for who he knew must be coming next.

While he certainly had not wanted to hear the Potter boy fawning over his father, he was more than willing to hear heartfelt words about his mother. Polyjuiced into the familiar old Muggle, seated in the second-last row of the old Magic Moments Theater on Diagon Alley where the event had been moved the previous year due to overcrowding in the narrow street outside of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, Severus watched a confident and collected Harry Potter deliver an emotional tribute to his mother. And when he opened the box containing the Lily Potter figure, and pulled a small and perfect doe from the accessory bag, he recalled Harry’s words. “She wasn’t just my mum, and shouldn’t be remembered only for sacrificing her life for me,” he had said two weeks before. “She was a brilliant witch, and she dedicated her life to the Order of the Phoenix, and to the fight against Voldemort and the Death Eaters. She faced Voldemort three times – most people who faced him even once didn’t live to see the next day. She was brave, and full of fire, but she was a true and loyal friend, and as gentle with them as she was fierce against her foes.”

It was no surprise that the Lily figure was perfectly rendered, and that her eyes were the exact shade of green that flowed from his heart to his mind when he thought of her. But it was with regret that he remembered her now, and while his heart gave that peculiar tug, it didn’t skip a beat or race out of control. She was beautiful, but not alluring. Tempered with the passing years, the flame flickered in the wind. He examined her face, her hair, her wand, her robes, and her resolute expression but he didn’t check what type of pants she was wearing. She remained prominently displayed with two does at her feet – the accessory that had come with her, and the de-antlered stag - but on the other side of the desk from James Potter, whom Snape had stuffed head-first into Moody’s trash can after he grew tired of Moody’s stomping around exclaiming “Constant Vigilance!”

The next year was the year of Tonks and Lupin. Utterly predictable, Snape thought, as he prodded Tonks’ nose with her tiny wand to turn it into a pig’s snout and then what appeared to be his own beaky proboscis. He frowned down at the pink-haired figure, then prodded again. His own nose disappeared, replaced with what had remained of Mad Eye’s in his final years. He sighed and placed the figure beside her husband, currently in his furry-faced werewolf form, and sat down at his desk, staring at the collection.

Six dolls. Three years. Six dead wizards, all of them who’d had an enormous impact on Harry Potter’s life.

It couldn’t be long now. It _should_ have been earlier, in fact. Just after Dumbledore, truth be told, though he certainly hadn’t expected that show of courtesy. Had Potter forgotten so readily the Moody who had nearly led him to his death fourth year?

Of course, there’s been no Sirius Black, and no Fred Weasley yet, either. If Potter didn’t decide to produce the Headmaster Severus Snape, Order of Merlin First Class, Potions Master Extraordinaire Wizarding Hero Action Figure soon, he’d be shunted back in line behind whomever decided to expire next – Filius Flitwick perhaps, or Aberforth Dumbledore or merciful Merlin, Minerva McGonagall.

And the longer it took to rise to the top of the heap, the less inclined he might find himself to go through with his plan.

Because Potter, damn the boy, was beginning to grow on him.

He was none of the things Severus expected. He’d forged his own path, tried then rejected the careers he thought he’d want. He wasn’t connected at the hip to the Weasley girl, wasn’t the Ministry’s poster boy, and stayed out of the limelight unless he was promoting his business.

Which seemed to be doing exceedingly well.

Now, if Potter would only get around to producing the Severus figure, he’d have his fun. Hook Potter in, enforce all sorts of ridiculous demands, and pull out on the cusp of production. 

Grubby little fingers would not be removing _his_ pants to check if his figure had bits.

Besides, he admitted to himself, it would spare him the humiliation of being the only Wizarding Action Hero whose sales were in the single digits.

He was fully prepared for the announcement of Wizard number seven, and not at all prepared to hear the name Frank Longbottom.

Frank who?

Or better said, _Who_ Longbottom?

But true to form, the wizarding public gobbled him up. When the seventh paper-wrapped box was delivered and duly unwrapped, Severus stared at the non-descript figure. It could have been anybody. Medium height, medium build, brown hair, brown eyes. He came with bagpipes and a kilt in his mother’s family tartan. On the surface, and quite unlike all the other figures that preceded him, there was truly nothing remarkable about him.

Severus stuffed one end of the bagpipes up Tonks’ generous pig snout, propped Frank Longbottom up beside her and told himself it was a good thing Potter hadn’t thought to produce a Snape figure yet. Snape would be every child’s first choice of villain. They’d pit Dumbledore against him and reverse the tables. He’d be the one pitching forward over the rail of the Astronomy Tower. He’d serve detention under Lupin. Moody would haul him off to Azkaban. Cauldrons would explode in his face. Wizarding Action Figures would appear at the top of Filch’s Hogwarts contraband list.

Still – he needed to know. He had to be prepared. And extreme need called for extreme measures. He needed firsthand information, directly from Harry Potter’s own mouth. He would go to the shop, request a catalog, then raise a holy stink that there was no Slytherin representation among the supposed “heroes.” And of course, he’d need an alter-alter-ego. A Slytherin. 

Fortunately, he counted among his customers a number of Slytherins suffering from what was something of a scourge among purebloods – male pattern baldness. The treatment consisted of a tonic that had to be customized to the user’s specific hormonal profile. The profile was established and rechecked regularly by pulling three hairs from the scalp, roots intact. Ultimately, he chose Marcus Flint. Flint had bottomed out of the professional Quidditch world at the age of twenty-two and had led an unremarkable life ever since, out of the public eye, and more important, in Switzerland. Potter might recognise him – he’d certainly recognise the name – but he’d have no specific expectations of him and word was unlikely to reach Flint in Switzerland that he’d raised hell in the Weasleys’ joke shop.

He rather regretted that he couldn’t use Draco Malfoy instead. Malfoy, coincidentally, was another of Severus’ clients – the kind of client who was shown into the private consultation room, and who left with tidy packages wrapped up in discreet brown paper. He thought he’d rather enjoy a good round of snarky bickering with Harry Potter, but alas, his goal was to get information, not to end up with his photo on the front page of the _Prophet_ as he was escorted out of the joke shop by a crimson-robed Auror half his age.

His entire plan was thrown off as he approached Gringotts, already Polyjuiced into the overweight, thin-haired Flint with very bad knees. He tried to keep from wincing as he walked, wishing he’d discovered the painful knees before he hurried out of the alley door of the shop, as he had a plentiful supply of pain potions at the ready there. But he continued on, more slowly than he’d anticipated, and it was this delayed progress that put him in front of Gringotts at the precise moment that Draco Malfoy himself was climbing the stairs leading to the bank as Harry Potter and George Weasley were making their way back down to the street.

Severus, on the opposite side of the street, stopped in his tracks, then turned his back to look into a store window displaying goblin-made dinnerware. Everything was brightly polished, despite the fact that no one but the Malfoys could afford such items, and the goblins refused to sell anything anyway. A quick charm brought the men’s voices to him – he hesitated to use his extendable ears in such a public venue so made do with the hallow-sounding voices the charm delivered.

“Malfoy.”

“Mornin’, Malfoy.”

Weasley sounded more cordial than Potter, but as he watched their reflection in the window, Potter extended his hand. Malfoy took it, releasing it quickly after a brief shake. 

There wasn’t much more.

They parted moments later after exchanging the barest of polite pleasantries and a single barb, which wasn’t very pointed at all.

“Well, you’d better get back to your dollies, Potter,” Malfoy drawled.

“Ah – that’s right. I need to pack your order, Malfoy,” Potter returned with a smile that was too stiff to be genuine.

It was as if they were trying for the animosity of old, but the familiar venom had been replaced by a cautious civility.

“He needs to get over that you’re not doing Snape,” commented George as the two watched Malfoy make his way up the broad stairs to the bank.

“Don’t say it like that,” Potter said, but oddly, he didn’t make a face or pretend to vomit.

George laughed. “You should just tell him once and for all that it’s not going to happen,” he said. “Tell him we’re only doing popular wizarding heroes. Those things need to fly off the shelves considering half the profits go to charity.”

Potter, who’d started to continue down the street, jerked his head back toward Weasley.

“Look – I know you’re not too fond of him George. And yeah, I understand why.” Severus thought he looked purposefully at George’s missing ear. “But you can’t argue that he wasn’t a hero.”

“No, but I can argue that he’s not popular!” George responded good-naturedly.

Potter looked oddly hurt. “Do you really think Snape wouldn’t sell?” he asked.

“Wait – you’re not – you’re not really thinking about it? Harry….!” 

He hurried to catch up with Potter, who’d turned his back and continued walking away.

Snape reversed course and headed back to his shop. He wouldn’t have to go through with his plan after all.

Potter had every intention of producing the Severus Snape Wizarding Action Figure, his partner’s misgivings be damned.

Carefully laid plan of disruption and pulling the plug at the last minute gone with the wind, Severus vowed then and there to make sure the end result was as tasteful, difficult to disrobe and true to life as possible, even if the end result gave every one of his Hogwarts students recurring nightmares. Potter had simply been biding his time, waiting for George to arrive at a 

And of course, he’d make sure it promoted one of _his_ pet causes.

He could instruct his cousin to refuse permission – but Slytherin house could use a hero, and, for that matter, some major upgrades to its common room.

ooOOOoo

Severus was enjoying a particularly good cup of tea with plain toast and a soft-boiled egg when a nondescript barn owl pecked at his window. He wasn’t expecting any deliveries, and didn’t recognise the owl, but he opened the window and took the letter. The owl ignored the owl treat he offered and nicked a triangle of toast and took flight. Severus was left staring at an envelope sealed with red wax with a WWW imprint.

He dropped the letter onto the table and stared at it a moment before prodding it with his butter knife.

He was pleased to discover that it wasn’t properly sealed. It had been previously opened, most certainly by his cousin Albert Prince, and redirected to his residence in London exactly as he’d requested several years before.

Merciful Mother of Merlin – this was _it_.

He opened the letter, unfolded the parchment and spread it on the table, weighing the corners down with the salt and pepper shakers and jam jar. 

“Hmph.”

Snape frowned. Then he scowled. What the hell did the boy think he was doing sending him a form letter?

_Dear Mr. Prince:_

_Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, Diagon Alley, London, is producing a line of Wizarding Hero figures modeled after modern witches and wizards who are heroes and role models for the magical world. To date, we’ve produced seven figures in our first line, The War Against Voldemort. We are happy to inform you that we have chosen your cousin, Headmaster Severus Snape, as our eighth hero. The figures are sold only by owl order and are made of high-quality materials with great attention to detail and have life-like features and flexible joints for realistic movement._

_As Severus Snape’s closest relative and heir, we want you to be included in this important project. One half of all profits from the sale of the figures is given to charitable causes, and we ask that you consider and name a cause important to your cousin. We’d also appreciate any photos you have of Headmaster Snape. These will be returned to you and are used by our artists in the rendering of the features and proportions of the figure._

_We have a relatively short timeline of five months to complete the prototype, set up the details with the charity of your choice, and produce the first run of five hundred units, and would appreciate your immediate consideration and response._

_Severus Snape was truly a great wizard who made the ultimate sacrifice for the betterment of our world. We look forward to honouring his memory and sharing his life with generations to come._

_Cordially,_

_Harry J. Potter_  
George Weasley  
Angelina Johnson-Weasley  
Proprietors, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, Diagon Alley, London 

Snape folded his toast and purposely dropped a dollop of jam onto the letter. He smeared it around a bit but could still read the offensive sentence.

Remove “Severus Snape” and insert any other of the heroes’ names. “Mad Eye Moody” or “Albus Dumbledore” or “Nymphadora Tonks.” Each and every one was a great wizard who made the ultimate sacrifice and whose death contributed to the eventual end of Voldemort and hence, the betterment of the Wizarding world.

There was absolutely nothing personal in the boring, ho-hum, run-of-the-mill, every-day-the-same-as-any-other-day letter. Nothing heartfelt. No acknowledgement in the least that the author of the letter – Harry Potter himself, the very one who’d signed his name first, who stood to earn quite a bit of money by capitalizing on Severus Snape’s tragic death - actually had firsthand knowledge of his chosen subject’s life – and death.

Hmph indeed.

Severus read through the letter again. 

_…your immediate consideration and response.._

Potter’s timeline was none of his concern. He’d not have the process rushed just to meet some artificial deadline. And even though he had no intention of sending a response for at least a week, he abandoned his breakfast and the jelly-stained parchment, downed his first dose of Polyjuice for the day, and got ready to go down to work,

His desk was in a nook off his lab, and his spare parchment, quills, sealing wax, _Oxford English Dictionary_ and thesaurus were, of course, kept there as well.

Four hours later, he carefully read, and re-read, response attempt number six and deemed it suitable – well, suitable after he rewrote it in an approximation of his cousin’s handwriting, and signed his cousin’s name. He’d been in the middle of his first hot-headed attempt when it suddenly occurred to him that Potter hadn’t been writing to him at all, but to his cousin. His cousin, who hardly knew Severus, would have no real reason to shoot off a sarcastic, ill-tempered, hot-headed, rude, offensive and thesaurus-enhanced response to the Boy Who Lived to Ruin Severus’ Afterlife, even if he _was_ offended on behalf of his cousin.

Grumbling, he’d crumbled up the parchment and started again.

He had to start over yet again when his quill slipped and wrote “Dear Idiot” instead of “Dear Mr. Potter.”

Attempt three was more successful. He got past the salutation, wrote an adequate opening line, but fumbled by writing “In keeping with my high standards” when he’d intended to write “In keeping with my _cousin’s_ high standards.”

He crumbled up attempt number three and, though the clock insisted it was far too early – but what did a brainless clock know, anyway? – poured himself a measure of scotch to steady his shaking hand.

He carefully wrote “Dear Mr. Potter” at the top of letter number four, penned a satisfactory first paragraph, and then a second, and a third, and a fourth, and even a fifth, before he realised he was showing his hand by pointing out all the flaws of the previous action figures. He, Albert Prince, Jr., had absolutely no reason in the world to have ever seen or examined said figures.

Well, damn. He’d been enjoying pointing out that the Albus Dumbledore figure was missing its corset.

With a huff and a fortifying sip of scotch, and a chaser, he pulled out another piece of parchment and started afresh.

Number five had promise. He grinned as he wrote out the demand for seventy-five percent of the profits instead of fifty percent to the cause of his choice. Yes, indeed. Improvements to the Slytherin Common Room and Potions Lab at Hogwarts would be a hard pill for the denizens of WWW to swallow. He smirked as he added that he himself must approve the final prototype. And he laughed aloud when, with a stroke of genius, he suggested they sell one version with the Dark Mark, and one without for the faint of heart.

But his quill hesitated after he wrote it, and he put it down on its stand and blew on the letter thoughtfully. 

What _would_ Potter do about the Dark Mark?

Ultimately, he started all over and decided to leave _that_ difficult question to Potter, figuring he could give him trouble either way when he got the first prototype. He chuckled. Potter might not be expecting to send him more than one, but there was no way he’d approve it on the first go-round.

Letter six was a keeper. Short, simple and just snarky enough for Potter to assume that snarkiness ran in the family.

Dear Mr. Potter:

I am in receipt of your request. After careful consideration, I have decided to allow you to go forward with the production of the Headmaster Severus Snape Wizarding Heroes Action Figure. However, in keeping with my cousin’s high standards and scrupulous attention to detail, I will insist on final approval of the pre-production prototype. Furthermore, as Severus would certainly severely object to young children with grubby hands manhandling his person, and this very thing is the certain outcome of releasing this product, I will require that seventy-five percent, not fifty, of the profit per figure be donated to Hogwarts for improvements to the Potions laboratory and the Slytherin common room.

I look forward to receipt of your preliminary prototype for my review.

Cordially,

Mr. Albert Prince, Jr.

He put the final letter aside pending at least a cursory study of his cousin’s handwriting and send his owl off to Albert thanking him for forwarding the correspondence and requesting a copy of his genealogy study of their shared ancestral line. He assumed it would be hand-written, as Prince didn’t seem the sort to use a typewriter.

Four days later, he decided he’d made the boy wait long enough and sent off his response. 

The game, as a great detective was rumoured to have said, was on.

ooOOOoo

Severus expected a prompt reply from Potter, even accounting for the owl having to go to Paris, and then from Paris back to Diagon Alley. He wouldn’t have been surprised to get a response the next day and found himself looking over at his window whenever so much as a leaf blew by.

Still, an intolerable 59 hours passed between the time his owl took off with his response to Potter and Potter’s response arrived. It was his cousin’s owl again, the nondescript barn owl with the affinity for toast and jam, though this time it arrived at sundown when he was dining on the Lancashire hotpot Madeline had brought in for him that morning, claiming her boys just wouldn’t eat it reheated. In true form, the owl gave up its letter and, rude beast that it was, dipped its head quickly into the hotpot and nicked a very nice chunk of lamb – one Severus had been eying for his last savory bite.

Bugger that owl.

Severus scowled at it, and it had the audacity to _shrug_ at him before it flew off, skewered lamb and all.

Severus eyed the letter while he finished his supper, but the letter stayed exactly where it had landed on the table. It was addressed to M. Albert Prince, Jr, Paris, France. The handwriting matched that of the last letter, which was reminiscent of the ink-blot littered essays turned in by one Harry James Potter, minus the ink blots.

Potter was clearly using a Muggle pen these days. 

He pushed his plate and cutlery to the side, folded his napkin on top of the plate, and scooted the letter over with the pad of his index finger. He centered it in front of him then flipped it over with the same finger.

The WWW seal was broken again. He could think of no legitimate reason for his cousin to open his owl post, even letters clearly addressed to Albert Prince, Jr. However, neither could he think of a good reason to ask him not to. 

He removed the letter, which, like the previous one, was folded in half, then in half again, and smoothed it out on the table, employing the salt and pepper shakers again as paperweights.

_Dear Mr. Prince:_

_Thank-you for your courteous response to our inquiry. We have contacted the Hogwarts Board of Governors and relayed your wishes to have proceeds from the sale of the Severus Snape Wizarding Action Figure targeted to renovations to the Slytherin Common Room and to a new Potions laboratory dedicated to your cousin. While the Board has asked for more detailed projections of shared profit, which we believe will, over the course of three years, be sufficient to fund the upgrades, they have given their approval to your request and have asked to meet with you, at your convenience, to discuss details. _

_On a personal note, Mr. Prince, these action figures are both a business venture for me and an act of love and remembrance for our fallen heroes. As such, and because your cousin was so instrumental to my continued existence, we will also honour your request to donate 75 percent of our net profit to your chosen causes. But in order to bring in a profit, we must get the figure to production. _

_The Hogwarts Headmaster was gracious enough to give us access to photographs of Headmaster Snape and to the clothing that he left at Hogwarts. Our artists are already hard at work on the prototype, and our seamstress is laying out the patterns for the clothing and boots. As you requested, we will send the prototype to you for your approval in approximately four weeks._

_We typically include a wand and one or more accessories with each action figure. The wand is modeled after the witch or wizard’s own wand. We have chosen a cauldron as the primary accessory for Professor Snape and are considering a lily to symbolize his friendship and love for my mum, Lily Potter. We’d be happy to consider any alternate ideas you might have._

_Thank you once again for participating in this project. I look forward to meeting you at the unveiling party. The expenses for you and a guest to make the trip and speak a few words about your cousin will be covered by WWW._

_Cordially,_

_Harry J. Potter_  
George Weasley  
Angelina Johnson-Weasley  
Proprietors Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, Diagon Alley, London 

_cc Hortense Battiste, Solicitor to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes_

Severus squinted at a small postscript written in a delicate script below the signatures.

“As per Statute A16-4345.29, a deceased witch or wizard deemed a public figure has no copyright to their own person, including appearance or visage and words spoken in public in the presence of others. As illustrations of the application of this statute, Mad Eye Moody’s ‘Constant Vigilance’ and Albus Dumbledore’s half-moon spectacles can be replicated without copyright infringement. Therefore, while your permission to produce the Severus Snape action figure is appreciated, it is not required and WWW may legally produce the figure without your permission.”

And directly below that haughty little paragraph was a quickly penned “Sorry about that” in Harry Potter’s more familiar scrawl.

It was the only thing in this letter that was even vaguely reminiscent of the Potter he had known.

Had the boy changed that much? He hadn’t appeared to be stiff and formal at all at the release events he’d attended. He’d been friendly, and excited, and certainly hadn’t spoken like a solicitor, chosen his words with caution, or read from a script.

He wrinkled his nose – this letter had all the earmarks of the brilliant but boring Hermione Granger. How dare she turn Harry Potter, who wore his heart on his sleeve and exuded boyhood charm and honesty, into a grammar-conscious robot? A greedy corporate figurehead? A stuffed shirt who dictated form letters to a leggy receptionist?

He pushed his chair back, fuming, before his rational mind finally kicked in gear.

Harry Potter wasn’t writing to him. Stupid stupid stupid. Potter was writing to Albert Prince, Jr. He didn’t know the man. They were associating on a professional level and Potter was doing his best to remain polite and check his emotions at the door. This was his eighth round of such correspondence. He probably knew all the traps by now, all the rabbit holes – dealing with Aberforth Dumbledore had to have tossed him directly from the cauldron into the fire. The old bastard had probably tried to convince them to produce a goat accessory to go along with the Dumbledore figure – perhaps even one with a saddle so Dumbledore could ride it like a pony.

This entire correspondence was proving to be tedious. He’d been looking forward to sparring with Potter and had thrown him good bait – demanding seventy-five percent of the profit instead of fifty. And instead of rising to the challenge, negotiating down to sixty or sixty-five, he’d acquiesced without a fight.

And that was unsportsmanlike.

Severus couldn’t sleep that night, and grew tired to fighting his mind, which composed and recomposed responses as he slept, upping the ante each time by baiting and goading. Finally, at nearly two o’clock in the morning, he pulled himself from bed and trod barefoot to his desk. By three fifteen, his response was ready, written in his “Albert Prince, Jr.” handwriting, and so outlandish that Potter would absolutely go off script in his response.

He pressed his mother’s Prince seal into the wax, suddenly exhausted, and headed back to bed.

_Dear Mr. Potter:_

_My – you do work fast at Wesley’s Wizard Wheezes, don’t you? I suppose you enjoyed trying on my cousin’s clothing and pretending to glide across the floor without actually touching it?_

_(He’d been particularly proud of that initial barb and could not have known that Harry Potter had done exactly that, but in the privacy of his own home, thank you very much. And yes, the misspelling of the Weasley name was very deliberate.)_

_You mention accessories. A cauldron is appropriate, given Severus’ Mastery, but please assure that it is made of pewter and not some inferior material. Merlin knows that the intrepid young witch or wizard who receives the figurine may try to brew some noxious substance using the cauldron, tiny though it may be. I am quite sure the upstanding personnel of Weesley’s Wizard Whizzes would not want to be responsible for permanent scarring to a child’s face should the toy cauldron melt when placed over an open flame._

_(He had no idea how expensive a miniature pewter cauldron would be, but really – plastic cauldrons?)_

_As for the lily, I must trust your judgement, as I am not party to my cousin’s specific past romantic entanglements. I only know that he was exceedingly private in his affairs, romantic and otherwise, and would not appreciate this affair being acted out by children who already possess the Lily Potter figure. Mock marriages, duels between James Potter and Severus, tossing Severus off a bridge into a river in a suicidal frenzy over his lost love – all of these things might become reality if you showcase his passion with a lily. Perhaps the outline of the flower should instead be etched on the inside of the cauldron. Present, but inconspicuous._

_(He had loved Lily. He still thought of her frequently, and fondly, and was fiercely protective of her memory. But he took secret delight in the idea of Potter telling his production company that they’d have to etch a tiny lily on the inside of hundreds of miniscule pewter cauldrons.)_

_The wand, of course, will be made of the wood and core material my cousin used in his wand – I am sure it is of record at Hogwarts, so you should ask the headmaster the next time you barge through examining Severus’ pants drawer. _

_The Board of Governors may contact me directly by the same means you do. As for the release party, I shall consider it when the event is nearer at hand._

_Cordially,_

_Albert Prince, Jr._

__

ooOOOoo

The prototype arrived an interminable four and a half weeks later, but he had two more unexpected encounters of sorts before he had the pleasure of examining himself in miniature.

The first came early the next morning, when two owls dropped a parcel on the delivery ledge he’d installed outside his shop window. But this wasn’t a delivery for the shop but rather another from Potter and WWW, dutifully forwarded by his cousin. It resembled the boxes in which the action figures had been delivered, though it was much larger. He opened it to find a complete set of all Wizarding Hero Action Figures released to date along with a short note from Potter.

_Please find within the retail versions of the WWW Wizarding Action figures produced prior to the planned Severus Snape figure. We thought you might like to examine the workmanship and have a point of comparison for the Severus Snape figure._

_Cordially,_

_Harry_

Harry. Well, that certainly was chummy of the boy.

He eyed the figures speculatively but let them be while he finished his workday. When he was ready to retire to his quarters, he scooped up the package and took it with him. He stored the figures, still in their boxes, on a cupboard shelf and fetched his own collection. It was rather worse for the wear now, the James figure in particular, as he’d let Madeline’s poodle chew on it one afternoon and had then stuck the wand through a chew hole in its head. He’d long ago switched the clothing on Remus and Tonks, and stuffed Moody head-first in the rubbish bin. Dumbledore was completely naked – he’d draped his cloak over Tonk’s shoulders so that she looked somewhat like a monarch awaiting coronation. Only Frank – boring boring boring – and Lily remained unadulterated. He gathered up all the figures except for Lily and dumped them into a box, inserted a short note, then taped it up to send back to Potter the next time he replied to a letter.

_Thank you for providing these figures for my study. I am satisfied with the craftsmanship, and am returning them in the same condition in which they were received. I assume someone tampered with the package while en route. I hope this is not indicative of the kind of person who will be purchasing the figure dedicated to my cousin, nor of the quality of owls used by your owl order business. Your assurances to the contrary will be appreciated. – AP_

Two weeks later, he had the fortune – or misfortune – of nearly running into Potter one Saturday afternoon at Eeyops. Potter had a child with him, a boy who seemed not quite old enough yet for Hogwarts, though they were clearly shopping for an owl. The Lupin child, Severus guessed. Potter would be his godfather, of course. They paid no mind to the old man perusing the owl treat aisle, and Severus lingered long enough to overhear a fellow shopper, a witch with three young children, all clutching grimy action figures, stop and address Potter.

“That’s you, Mr. Potter, isn’t it?” she said with a tired smile. “We’re looking forward to your next hero figure – you wouldn’t consider giving us a hint, would you?”

The youngest boy was holding Dumbledore by the hair. His robes had fallen back and he was missing his Victorian-era pants. The oldest had James, while the middle child, a girl, was holding the Lily figure, but had dressed her in Tonks’ Auror robes and Dumbledore’s boots. Severus squinted at the oldest child while Potter smiled enigmatically and assured the witch that it would be someone equally as heroic and important as the others.

What was that on the Potter doll’s forehead?

The boy holding the doll was staring at him now, and he elbowed his sister, who looked up to stare at him too.

Severus scowled and tried to look cranky. It was a difficult look. The Muggle he’d been impersonating all these years had features one would traditionally call ‘jovial.’

He turned away, but not before he finally made out what was on the James Potter figure’s forehead.

A scar. A lightning-bolt-shaped scar, drawn on with ink, slightly off-center.

Mother of Merlin – children _were_ inventive. This was troubling. They’d switched accessories and clothing and had handily converted James Potter into the Boy-Who-Lived.

What would they do with a washed-up spy who met his end on the business side of a giant snake?

Oh hell no.

Snakes.

ooOOOoo

Severus began brewing his monthly supply of Polyjuice on the last Tuesday of each month.

And it was on the last Tuesday of the month that the now-familiar barn owl tapped on his window, just as he finished eating the reheated stew he’d saved from last night’s dinner. He had three minutes before he needed to add the leeches to the Polyjuice, so he had no choice but to leave the package on the table, leave the owl to scavenge the crusts of his sandwich and leave for his lab.

The package sat on his table all afternoon – alluring in all its brown-paper simplicity, calling out to him through the reinforced walls of his laboratory. He tamped down the curiosity, stilled his itchy fingers, cleared his mind and put up his best Occlumency shields but still – still – he could not forget what awaited him back in his quarters.

It was like the night before his first September 1st – the first one that mattered, anyway. He’d shivered in his narrow bed, counting down the hours until they left for King’s Cross Station to board the Hogwarts Express.

And while the anticipation was killing him, he forced himself to eat dinner before he allowed himself to open the package.

Though prototype, it was packaged like all the other action figures he’d purchased. The plain black box was embellished only with the WWW logo. He washed his hands thoroughly, dried them on a clean towel, then lifted the lid.

Nestled on a bed of white velveteen, Headmaster Severus Snape stared up at him in all its fabulous and ugly glory.

Merlin’s hairy bollocks – his hair looked _greasy_.

He had to admit that the features were most decidedly his own. Eyes nearly black, beakish nose, angular cheek bones, long and narrow fingers, though molded together on the figure. He didn’t like that – the thumb, at least, should be separated. He left the figure on the table, still in its box, and fetched all seven of its predecessors. All of these had hands with the thumb separated from the other four fingers. Was Potter trying to cut corners to win back some of the extra profit earmarked for the Slytherin common room?

He determined then and there to demand that all the fingers be detached from one another on at least one hand, and that they have gripping action. He was a Potions Master, after all. He had a stirring rod to grip.

The robes, at first glance, were exactly like the ones he’d favoured at Hogwarts in his final years there. The waistcoat even had tiny buttons. He couldn’t help but smile as he examined them, but his smile turned upside down as he realised that Potter had skimped here, once again. There were only two rows of ten buttons instead of thirteen.

Rationally, he knew it was nearly impossible to even manage ten, but details were important in his line of work and honestly, Potter should _care_ about them. 

He carefully removed the outer robe and found, to his utter surprise, that it was lined with silk.

He ran his hand over the fabric, wondering how many people now knew his secret. He decided that he’d simply demand a change – to rabbit fur. He’d claim it was his winter traveling cloak. He’d always wanted a cloak lined with rabbit fur, hadn’t he?

Hadn’t he? 

The boots were adequate but not up to snuff. Black, as he preferred, though he’d always spent more for dragonhide and done without a second pair. At least these were pointy, with heels. In real life, his boots had added two inches to his height. Hell yes he’d be doing the arithmetic to calculate how tall these heels had to be to keep everything in proportion.

He checked the left wrist and forearm – clean. He toyed with the idea of demanding the mark, then rejected it, but determined to bring it up as a possibility just to see what Potter did with it.

Finally, he raised the robes high enough to determine what variety of underthings Potter had given him. He imagined there would be briefs with drawstrings on each side of the waist, similar to or the same as Dumbledore’s.

But no.

Boxers. Plain black, as he preferred because Morgana’s Tits! – Potter had gone through his privates drawer!

Authentic, he thought, down to the serious look on his face and the potions stains on his molded fingers.

An idea was beginning to germinate.

He removed the bag of accessories and using the tips of his fingers extracted the miniscule wand – obviously made of ebony unless Potter had used shoe-polish to darken a lighter wood, a cauldron made of something that was decidedly not pewter and a necklace.

A necklace?

He examined it more closely – a gold disc on a purple ribbon. 

He rolled his eyes. An Order of Merlin, First Class.

Moody, Tonks and Lupin had all been awarded Orders of Merlin, First Class, and all posthumously. Why was his figure the only one to include the award as an accessory? Could it possibly be that Potter couldn’t think of anything else? Why not a walking stick, of polished oak, like the one he used when he foraged in the Forbidden Forest for potions ingredients? Or an epee – with blunted end of course. Did Potter not know he was a champion fencer? 

But no. No. Potter didn’t know these things. Potter knew nothing of him outside of the classroom, outside of his memories.

He peered into the cauldron – some ridiculous tin alloy, he suspected – but couldn’t discern any etching. He turned it over to examine the bottom for appropriate thickness and …. What was this?

A flower – not a lily, but a daisy – etched lightly into surface. 

A daisy? 

Who the hell was Daisy?

Finally, he plucked the wand up and was nearly bowled over when he _felt_ it.

Not dragon heartstring like his own, but then again, a dragon heartstring was too broad to fit into a wand of this size. What the hell had they used? Unicorn hair? Mystical Merlin – not _Veela_ hair?

And speaking of hair…

He glanced at the figure again, lying in its bed of white velveteen, and frowned at the sheen on the hair. Well, there was nothing for it. 

He picked up the figure and ran two fingers over its head, expecting to find that Potter had dipped the hair in olive oil or some such nonsense.

Hmm. Not greasy at all. Fine, and made of natural hair – probably horse. The combination of dark colours created the sheen, which he’d automatically interpreted as greasy.

He stuffed the wand, the medal and the cauldron back in the bag and dropped it unceremoniously atop the figure, reaching for the letter that had been folded up beneath the box.

_Dear Mr. Prince:_

_Here at last! This prototype is actually a bit more than an initial prototype. As Severus Snape is our eighth figure in the line, we’ve perfected the joints, composite materials and packaging and really need to focus on details such as physical features, clothing and accessories._

_We’re very happy with progress to date and have benefitted from the cooperation of the Hogwarts staff, who have shared photographs and access to the Headmaster’s remaining clothing, and especially to the Ministry, which gave its permission to include a likeness of the Order of Merlin medal. _

_We’d appreciate any feedback you might have and look forward to moving forward toward production._

_Cordially,_

_Harry Potter and Team_

_He ignored the rather lazy signature, allowing that they’d been corresponding long enough for Potter to drop some of the formality._

_There was no mention of or reference to his rather caustic reply to the previous letter._

_Well, well. Potter thought he had a pushover on his hands, did he? _

_He told himself that it didn’t matter that the prototype was actually very, very good. Very, very good wasn’t nearly good enough. And this correspondence was possibly the most interesting thing that had happened to him in the past decade, aside from being very nearly decapitated by a snake, of course. Potter had actually shown a modicum of emotion in the letter. While he hadn’t risen to the bait laid in Severus’ last letter, he’d definitely _chosen_ to ignore it but had changed his tone nonetheless. Why – he’d even used an exclamation mark. One single, solitary exclamation mark. _

_Severus extracted his trusty ruler, pulled over a fresh roll of parchment, fished out his fine-point quill and got to work._

__

ooOOOoo

Dear Mr. Potter:

While I was moderately satisfied with the prototype of your product, I do have a few concerns and corrections, and know you will address them promptly. As Severus Snape was a particularly complicated wizard and hero, and a not-small faction of the Wizarding public still refuses to recognize his critical contribution to the outcome of the past war, it is of utmost importance that this figure be absolutely perfect in every detail, down to the number of buttons on the waistcoat.

Thirteen per row, Mr. Potter. Not ten. Not eleven. Thirteen.

I found the hair acceptable, though rather greasy-looking. A final shampoo of each figure before packaging will should resolve this issue. I shampooed the hair of the prototype and with a quick blow dry, found it entirely satisfactory.

(He took particular pleasure in this paragraph, imagining Potter and his partners setting up a small hair salon to shampoo and blow dry hundreds of tiny heads of horse hair.)

I used my cousin’s height and weight to calculate proportions. Perhaps you made an error in your arithmetic when you created the initial model? Please increase the figure’s torso height by 1.8 centimeters. It is entirely too leggy in its current form. Also, you will need to decrease the heel of the boot by 2 millimeters.

The hands are my greatest complaint with Prototype 1. They should be able to grip a stirring rod, and to do so, the fingers need to be separated and the hand should have gripping action. Please do not skimp in this area – expert Potions making as well as wandwork require a tight grip, as do many other activities, as you well know, Mr. Potter.

(He couldn’t really imagine anyone simulating wanking with the figure, but it wouldn’t hurt to put the thought in Potter’s head in case he contemplated a future anatomically correct figure.)

I am reasonably happy with the clothing, though I must ask why this figure is wearing black boxers? Did you find similar underclothing among my cousin’s artifacts? Please include an optional pair of traditional wizarding briefs with your next prototype and if you insist on the boxers, it will not do to sew up the flies as in your current model.

While the boots are the correct style, my cousin always wore dragonhide. I’m not a leather expert but feel that the current boots do not mirror the quality of his daily attire. Please address this.

As for the accessories, did you do any research at all? The Order of Merlin medal should be affixed to his person, not hung around his neck, and should NOT be considered an accessory. My cousin enjoyed birdwatching, hiking and fencing. Surely you can create an appropriate accessory that speaks more to his life outside of Hogwarts.

(He’d never enjoyed birdwatching, but thought it added a touch of humanity to his persona so threw it in as a lark. Also, he had never had a life outside of Hogwarts, except with the Death Eaters, and didn’t really want an accessory related to torture and murder.)

Please include, in your next correspondence, the wand wood and core material used. The core is obviously not dragon heartstring and I am curious to know what was substituted. I do realise that the wand girth is not substantial enough to accommodate a dragon heartstring, but feel that the substitute should be an authentic magical material that has at least some relevance to the original core material. Perhaps a unicorn hair moistened with a dragon’s teardrop?

(Dragon tears were one of the most expensive items for a Potions Master to procure. They were difficult and dangerous to harvest, and not only because a dragon seldom had reason to cry.)

Finally - the cauldron, I am not a metallurgist nor am I a Potions Master yet even I know the difference between tin and pewter. And between a daisy and a lily, I might add.

I look forward to an updated prototype soon, one which meets my very reasonable demands.

Respectfully.,

Albert Prince, Jr.

ooOOOoo

Four months.

Four months of long-distance communication. Four months, three prototypes, eight letters in each direction. Disagreements over the cauldron bottom thickness, the appropriate height of the figure, the number of rows of buttons, the length and style of the hair. The hands alone occupied the majority of two letters, and the wand core two more.

He realised after the first few rounds that he was enjoying the correspondence more than he’d enjoyed most things since his rebirth as Simon Birch. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy his life as it was – he did. He very much did. He was not a social creature. He didn’t crave old friends and romance. But he imagined Potter sharing each of his letters with his friends as they arrived. He’d be exasperated, frustrated or possibly even amused. Severus thought that sometimes Potter forgot that he was writing to Severus’ cousin, and not to Severus himself.

Sometimes Severus forgot that too.

What would it be like to take a correspondence like this a step further? To meet for dinner? To not have to wait days between conversations?

Ridiculous. This was _Potter_. Young, successful, heart-on-his-sleeve, impetuous, 

He may as well acknowledge what he already knew – Potter surprised him. Surprised and impressed him. He had a solid business plan, had engineered a high-quality product, was above-board and ethical about the operations but, just as important, didn’t let Prince push him around totally when it came down to the things that mattered. They could squabble all day about cauldron bottom thickness and button counts, but they had the same goal in mind – to bring to the wizarding public a different kind of hero.

Details were important. A figure that many might perceive in a negative light had to be perfect in every way. The buyer would know that WWW didn’t skimp on the Snape figure. That they took time to get it right. That they used the best, most authentic materials. That they _cared_ enough to use real ebony for the wand and went over and above the range of motion of the previous figures to give Snape’s hands real gripping action. 

Details _were_ important. How Harry signed his letters. Usually with a _Sincerely, Harry Potter_ but on quickly scrawled notes, simply with a messy cursive _H_. Or how he’d started using his own wax seal on the envelope flap instead of the more ornate WWW stamp. 

And then – then there was the last letter. They’d been inching slowly toward this, so he certainly should not have been surprised that Potter had taken this turn – this _personal_ turn. This wanting to get to know Severus Snape a bit better turn. 

And suddenly – oh, why had his eyes been blinded? – he knew.

Potter _knew_.

Potter had somehow – had he? – seen through the charade.

No. He couldn’t have. Severus Snape was dead. Dead and buried, casket and all.

Why would Potter doubt that? He’d been there. He’d seen the snake rip out his throat. He’d stood over him as he’d faded away. He. Was. Dead. 

But –

He reached into the cubby hole where he kept the WWW correspondence and unfolded each letter, stacking one atop the other so that the newest was on top, and scanned it once again.

_Dear Mr. Prince:_

_Thanks for getting back to me so quickly with your final requirements for the Headmaster Snape action figure. I’m passing on the buttons change to Molly – we’ll get all those buttons on one way or another. As for the cauldron bottom thickness – we’ve got that covered too. I know someone who’s really interested in cauldron bottoms and he’ll get the proportions right if it kills him._

_Have you thought any more about attending the release party? We’ve had family members at all of our previous new model releases. I hate to sound like a broken record, but it’s a great opportunity to promote your charity of choice. Not that the Slytherin common room at Hogwarts and the Potions lab are charities – but you know what I mean. The Hogwarts Board of Governors seemed happy enough when I discussed your request with them. They’re planning to dedicate the Potions lab to Snape – the Headmaster Severus Snape Memorial Potions Laboratory. It’s a mouthful, isn’t it? Won’t put students off while they’re measuring out armadillo bile, will it?_

_Don’t take me wrong –Snape (as I’m sure you know) was a great Potions Master. But to be honest, he wasn’t the best teacher, was he? Well – maybe you wouldn’t know that, since you probably had Slughorn when you were at Hogwarts and never were on the receiving end of one of Snape’s Potions lessons. I just like to think his heart wasn’t really in it. He was only a teacher because Dumbledore needed him close – well, and because he was brilliant at Potions, of course. I guess it seemed like a good fit at the time._

_Do you know if he liked it? Snape I mean – did he actually like teaching Potions? Did he even like children? You probably know – if you follow the Wizarding press, anyway – that I’ve tried to get people to understand what he was all about. You know – to drag his reputation out of the gutter and get him the honour and recognition he deserves. It’s not easy – he didn’t exactly ingratiate himself with anyone except his Slytherins, so it’s an uphill battle. That’s one reason it’s so important that this figure we’re releasing portray him positively. I don’t want people turning it into the bad guy or pitting Dumbledore against Snape in some sort of mock-up of their final encounter._

_Oh damn. That’s going to happen, isn’t it? Kids are going to recreate that scene on the Astronomy Tower and toss Dumbledore off the balcony or out the window._

_Well, that’s it, I suppose. I should have the final prototype to you next week. We’ve made quite a few changes over the past few months and I’m just happy we’re almost there. And I really hope you’ll come to the release party. The Hogwarts headmaster and the Board of Governors will be there, as well as the current Slytherin Head of House. And I’ll be there, of course. I’d like to meet you in person to thank you for agreeing to work so closely with us._

_Sincerely,_

_Harry Potter_

He read the letter, then re-read it, then read it yet again. Phrases started to jump out at him. Phrases that could be read as clues, that were meant to stand out just as they did. Potter thought Snape clever, and _knew_ that he’d have realised by now that every “Dear Mr. Prince” was really a “Dear Professor Snape.”

He’d not used that honorific in some time, but it still rolled off the tongue quite readily.

And what about “Don’t take me wrong – Snape….”?

That one had made his eyes pop open. It was as if Potter were addressing him directly! Him – HE – Severus Snape. 

“And I’ll be there, of course.”

Did Potter think he’d been squirrelled away in Paris all these years, dreaming of staring once more into his eyes?

And why did he always say “Molly” instead of “our seamstress” or “Mrs. Weasley”? Why even mention her existence at all? Of _course_ they had someone dedicated to the clothing and accessories. Any successful enterprise dealing with dolls – because honestly, that’s what these were – would have one. But Molly. Molly was someone he had personally known and had addressed as such. Prince, on the other hand, wouldn’t know Molly from a knot on a tree.

And all this nonsense about his final confrontation with Albus, and children chucking dolls out windows and off rooftops. Who was he trying to provoke here? Prince – or himself? Or – even more important – why was Potter trying to provoke _anyone_ at this point of the game?

Ah. 

Ahhhhh.

Potter didn’t want to kill the deal. He wanted to confront Prince – in person.

Because that’s surely what would happen. He’d push all the right buttons, annoy him enough to provoke him into a confrontation. He had a contract, after all. Neither could give up or pull out without a legal battle. 

And why would Potter want to pull out of a lucrative arrangement?

Unless – it wasn’t so lucrative after all? Unless sales projections were in the tank? Unless the measly bit of profit he’d left for WWW after his 75 percent wasn’t carrot enough to push Potter through the arduous process of getting a product to market?

But – how did Potter know how to push his buttons as he didn’t know Albert Prince at all? Was it really such a safe assumption that whatever would rankle Severus Snape would do the same for his much-older Gryffindor cousin in Paris?

Augh! Potter _knew_. He knew. No, he _suspected_. Or he didn’t suspect but was somehow – impossibly – infatuated with his former Potions professor and felt that his cousin was the only acceptable substitute.

Feeling as though his head, his usually very-balanced, hyper-focused head, was about to explode from the mental calisthenics he was imposing upon himself, he gathered parchment and quill, sat himself at his comfortably familiar rolltop, and drafted an acerbic reply.

Dear Mr. Potter:

I find it rather fascinating that you seem to be trying to sabotage this entire project just at the cusp of its fruition. I did not agree to your original proposition to release this figure in my cousin’s honour without careful consideration of the intents and purposes of those who might purchase it. And despite my conviction that certain wizarding youth might re-enact the fateful night of Albus Dumbledore’s death using these figures, as you so crassly point out in your most recent missive, I felt that your series of so-called heroes was so incomplete, so one-sided, that I would force myself to put aside my deep reservations in the interest of fairness and balance.

I was not close to my cousin Severus. I was already well-established in my career by the time he started at Hogwarts. Both age and distance separated us, I fear. However, I was aware of his sexual orientation, and feel secure in telling you your feelings toward him are misplaced and would not have been reciprocated. Your obsession with clearing his name posthumously is noted, and appreciated, as is your decision to include him in your line of action figures. However, I must say, now that we are so close to the acceptance of the final prototype, that your fascination with his undergarments, and your insistence that they be hand-stitched using traditional fabric and the Victorian style favoured by older wizards – with inverted Y-front openings and draw-string side closures – illustrates an obsession that can only be interpreted one way.

Mr. Potter, I do not know what kind of teacher my cousin was. I only know that students rarely like their teachers, and there cannot be Galleons enough in the world to compensate a Hogwarts professor who must daily face hundreds of juvenile witches and wizards. As for your invitation to the gala release party, I am still considering the offer. While I think it beneficial to have someone there with Severus’ best interests at heart, someone who can address the public as well as the Hogwarts staff and Board of Governors on behalf of my departed cousin, I am not one for publicity or public speaking, having led a quiet and peaceful life out of the Wizarding limelight.

Mr. Potter – please offer me your reassurances that you are not pining after my deceased cousin, and that you yourself have no plans to denigrate him by posing his figure inappropriately, or undressing him and placing him on your , arms folded over his chest, watching you while you sleep. I assure you he would not have shown a single iota of interest in whatever it is you do at night in bed. I shall be highly suspicious, indeed, if the next figure released is “The Boy Who Lived” as I can only imagine the ways you might amuse yourself with Severus’ figure and your own in the privacy of your bedroom.

I will advise you of my final decision when I receive an invitation to the release event. In the meantime, I am looking forward to the next prototype. I have buttons to count and cauldron bottoms to examine, you realise.

Cordially,

Mr. Albert Prince, Jr.

He folded the parchment and inserted it into an envelope, then sealed it quickly and sent it off with his owl before he could change his mind. 

Then, determined not to lose any sleep over the matter of Harry Potter and his pet action figures, he downed a good measure of fire whiskey and put himself to bed.

ooOOOoo

The appearance of a very disoriented and horribly flustered Albert Prince, Jr. in his Floo the following Saturday morning, brandishing a familiar looking box, launched the escalation of the final battle in this odd war of words.

“He came to my home!” his cousin exclaimed, shoving the box at him. “My home in Paris, Severus! Harry Potter himself! See that it doesn’t happen again!”

And with that, he disappeared from the Floo and Severus was left holding a Severus Snape action figure prototype with some very unauthorized changes.

He pivoted on the spot, moved quickly to his desk, and collapsed onto the chair before it.

Oh, this was rich. Very rich indeed.

Dress robes. Plaited hair. And what was this? A snake.

He pushed up the ridiculous robes to reveal a pair of crimson pants with gold drawstrings.

Grimacing, he inched the pants downward, revealing a tiny heart with miniscule writing in it. He had to fetch his reading glasses to make it out, and when he did, he stared at the sculpted buttocks, then slowly, and calmly, pulled the pants back on, lowered the robes, and placed the figure beside his beloved Lily atop the desk.

_H.P. + S. S._

He supposed he’d asked for it what with the content and tone of his last letter, but he really hadn’t expected something so blatant. This – why this was practically _flirtatious._

He examined what he knew of Harry Potter, what he’d gleaned over the years as the boy had gone about his life and tried out careers before landing – quite soundly – at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.

He’d played professional Quidditch.

He’d spent nearly two years traveling with Bill Weasley as an Apprentice Curse Breaker.

He’d been at the Weasley joke shop for more than four years now.

He popped up in the papers with frequency, despite his apparent efforts to keep a low profile.

He was – what? Twenty-six years old? Twenty-seven?

Unmarried. Childless. Partner-less, from all accounts. And while Severus, previous to this exact point in his life, had often wondered about that, albeit from an informational perspective and not at all because he was _interested_ in Potter or his life, the lack of obvious love interest for Potter took on a whole new light when he considered the buttocks tattoo Potter had given the Severus action figure.

The stir he felt, deep within himself, was _not_ interest. Nor was it the curling beginnings of hope-tinged arousal. 

It was – anger. Most decidedly anger.

The boy was toying with him. 

But – 

No. If Potter were toying with him, then Potter knew he was alive, or suspected as much. 

And hadn’t he just been at this particular juncture?

Well, there was nothing for it. 

Potter might not be toying with him – but he might be.

And Severus was going to call his bluff.

ooOOOoo

_Dear Mr. Potter:_

_We’ve arrived at last. While I admit I was surprised at the extent of unrequested modifications, and at your unannounced appearance at my door, I do understand why you opted to make these changes. And after careful consideration and not a small amount of reflection, I have determined that the prototype I received today meets my every expectation. The snake accessory was a thoughtful addition to the collection, but for greater authenticity, and a potential sales boost, I recommend that you make it with a removeable head. The combination of the snake and the tattoo, which I noted in due course on the left buttock, helps portray my cousin as the tragic figure he was, and makes his motivations for protecting the Boy Who Lived all the more obvious. I commend you on your decision to share this part of yourself with the Wizarding public._

_You may expect my presence at the Release Party, and I would be happy to say a few words about my cousin. Please bring a handkerchief to mop up your tears as I do tend to wax sentimental._

_Cordially,_

_Mr. Albert Prince, Jr._

__

ooOOOoo

Events moved very quickly from that day forward.

Only three days after sending off his reply to Potter, he was in the shop, in his Simon Birch persona, as was the norm. He was taking a short break from brewing and tallying up the previous week’s sales, when a ruckus – a most unexpected ruckus – jarred him from his calculations. First came a shriek, then a crash, then a scream, then even more shrieking.

He was out of his chair in a flash and opened the door leading to the shop to find utter chaos on the sales floor.

Humphrey, the counter wizard that day, had someone by the feet and was pulling him around behind the counter.

“What in the name of ..?” Severus sputtered as he stepped aside and watched an unconscious Harry Potter slide by his feet into the shop’s office. 

While WWW routinely ordered supplies from Slug and Jiggers, Harry Potter himself _never_ set foot inside the shop. So why was he here _now_? Severus frowned – how could he possibly have traced him _here_?

“Kids knocked over the center display. The fumes toppled him.”

“Leave him,” he ordered, in a voice that was much more reminiscent of Severus Snape than of the old man named Simon Burch. 

Humphrey jumped and turned tail.

“Hmph,” said Severus, regarding the unconscious but obviously breathing Potter. There was nothing on display that, combined with any other item on display, could cause serious, permanent or long-lasting damage. Potter obviously had a weak constitution.

Unless….

Severus prodded Potter in the side with the toe of his boot. Potter’s face didn’t change.

Severus’ gaze moved to rest on Potter’s face, then reached forward and plucked off his glasses. It wouldn’t do for him to have too good of a look around here.

Potter groaned and scrunched up his face. 

Severus picked up a Hogwarts supply list from the desk and started fanning him, feeling a bit inconvenienced and very, very curious.

The groaning got gradually louder until Potter finally blinked, then blinked again, and finally opened his eyes.

Later, Severus would admit that the hope of seeing those eyes again, up close, as close as they’d been that horrible night in the Shrieking Shack, was the only reason he’d dealt with Potter himself instead of turning him over to the counter crew and fleeing to his personal quarters.

He tried hard to remember that he was Simon Birch as he dealt with Potter. But was it Birch who would have blamed the entire incident on Potter? Birch who would have demanded that Potter pay damages? Birch who’d have thrown the young man’s status back in his face?

And most important, was it Simon Birch who would have had the James Potter-turned- Harry Potter action figure propped on the desk where he was working the ledger, with the snake accessory looped around its neck?

Snape missed the figure as soon as he sat back at his desk after pushing Potter out into the alley, after stupidly leaving the room to fetch him a glass of water. He stared at the place where the figure had been sitting and slowly, and despite his conscious effort to prevent his muscles from forming it, a smile grew across Simon Birch’s face.

Potter knew.

Harry Potter knew that Severus Snape was alive.

So why in the name of Merlin’s bellybutton was he smiling?

Oh, Harry Potter was clever. Even more clever than Severus had imagined. He’d seen through those letters, had suspected at some point that Mr. Alfred Prince, Jr. was not the man corresponding with him. Clever enough – or insane enough – to determine that the letters were penned by his former Potions professor himself, who thus couldn’t possibly be as dead he appeared to be. And he was brave, foolish Gryffindor that he was. Brave enough to do something he studiously avoided. He’d gone into a shop crowded with Hogwarts students and parents to do a bit of private investigating.

In the space of three days, Harry Potter had made unexpected visits to Albert Prince’s home and to Severus Snape’s place of business. But there had been no recognition in his eyes when he’d woken up to see Simon Birch fanning him, or when they’d interacted once Potter was fully conscious again. If Severus was correct, and he very likely was, Potter didn’t connect the old man at Slug and Jiggers with Severus Snape at all. Potter had almost certainly arrived at a different conclusion, a more obvious one. A one that suited his preconceptions better.

Potter thought Severus was living as his cousin Albert Prince, Jr.

Oh, the game wasn’t over quite yet. His king might be in check, but Severus still had a few moves left.

ooOOOoo

Only a few days after the incident with Potter in his shop, all of Diagon Alley was abuzz with talk of the contest.

The contest had George Weasley’s fingerprints all over it. It wouldn’t be like Potter at all to involve all of Diagon Alley in the release of one of his action figures, to invite the shopkeepers, in fact, to create magical dioramas in their shop windows featuring Headmaster Severus Snape, Wizarding Hero Action Figure. And it was especially unlike Potter to offer himself as a prize. Unless - unless Potter was Slytherin enough to cook up the scheme in order to get back inside Slug and Jigger’s, to rig the contest in Severus’s favour so he’d have another chance to unmask him.

Severus had taken the invitation, the contest rules and the complementary Severus Snape action figure into his lab when it arrived via special courier and, to the disappointment of his staff, had locked the door behind him.

He already knew everything there was to know about the contest, as it had been announced in full and microscopic detail in the _Prophet_. His focus now was on the box, the long, narrow black box inside which rested the Headmaster Severus Snape Wizarding Action Figure. As he carefully opened the box, practically holding his breath, he couldn’t have said what he was hoping to see – plaited hair and green dress robes or something more like the original prototype.

The figure, once exposed, was exquisite.

It looked far more like the original prototypes than the remake with Nagini. But if he squinted, and held the box so that the light glanced off of it, he could see a faint green shimmer in the robe’s fabric. The plait was gone, thank Merlin, but the hair was slightly longer than he thought he’d kept it at Hogwarts. 

He checked the pants – black boxers with functional openings – and was definitely not disappointed when the buttocks turned out to be completely tattoo-free. The boots were stunningly rendered of dragon hide, and the hands as maneuverable as he’d demanded. He did a quick button count, checked the stitch-work in the waistcoat, and opened the bag of accessories.

It held only a single accessory – the cauldron. 

But inside the tiny cauldron was a tiny scroll, and on the scroll was a tiny note.

“We’re not releasing the accessories for the contest, but I couldn’t imagine a window display at Slug and Jigger’s that didn’t feature a cauldron. – HP”

He held the cauldron, so small that he could barely insert the tip of his pinky in it, in the palm of his hand. Small as it was, it had a satisfying weight. He turned it over and found the daisy back again. They’d agreed to an undecorated cauldron some time ago, so he was surprised by the addition, but even more surprised when the tiny daisy wilted, then sprang new petals in the palm of his hand.

And then – then he understood. He held the cauldron for several more minutes, watching the minute flower wilt then bloom, then placed the cauldron on the desk beside the Lily figure. He took a breath, then pushed the left sleeve of the Severus Snape action figure’s robe up a notch, baring the wrist and forearm. 

The plaited figure had had a Dark Mark, though it had appeared on none of the others before. They’d never discussed it. Severus had thought it something Potter should have to deal with on his own.

And Potter had left it off.

Left it off until the very end.

Somehow, strangely, seeing the Mark on the figure in his hands made him release the breath he was holding.

It was, after all, rather an important part of him in those years between Potter’s birth and the final demise of Voldemort. It defined him, bookended his life. It was the Snape Potter knew as well – and the inclusion of the mark spoke of acceptance.

And now, staring at the remarkable image of the man he’d once been, he realised, in a sudden, crushing rush, that he missed being Severus Snape.

He missed sniping at students, and playing chess with Filius, and showdowns with Minerva. He missed flying, and talking with Dumbledore’s portrait, and while he didn’t miss being a Death Eater, or spying, he missed having a purpose. 

Good grief – he missed protecting Harry Potter.

But Potter didn’t need protecting anymore. Potter needed something else entirely. Something Severus couldn’t possibly provide.

Something his friends had found. Companionship. Partners. Love.

He turned the correspondence of the past few months over and over in his head, mixed it up with all that he knew of Potter after the war, and it all led to a conclusion that could not be true.

Potter was pursuing him. Flirting with him. Leading him on. Poking a sleeping dragon. A very very deeply sleeping dragon.

Which made absolutely no sense, as Potter was a young, healthy, unattached male who could have his choice of partners - _living_ partners.

A young healthy man who hadn’t chosen anyone in the nearly ten years since the Battle of Hogwarts.

Severus glanced at the contest rules again. He propped the Severus figure up against the back of his desk where the James figure had been, stared at it a moment, then picked up the tiny cauldron accessory.

If Potter thought Slug & Jigger’s should feature cauldrons in its display, he was happy to oblige. He’d remind Potter of their past and see what came next. Harry Potter wasn’t quite finished with cauldron bottoms after all.

ooOOOoo

The shop windows were unveiled on a Saturday, and Potter turned up at 2:15 in the afternoon, sandwiched between Ron and George Weasley. Madeline came back to tell him straightaway, and he pretended to be bored with the details – how the Weasley brothers had grinned, then laughed, elbowing Potter as they watched the James-turned-Harry figure scrub and rescrub a series of cauldrons, occasionally glancing forlornly at his broom. Potter had grinned, and had apparently taken it all in good humour, and had stared at the potions ingredients for a very long time.

“Do you suppose he realises that particular collection of ingredients would make the laboratory smell worse than dragon dung?” she asked with a chuckle.

Oddly, not a one of his employees had noticed that the first letter of the potions ingredients listed on the tiny chalkboard in the window diorama spelled out “C U SOON HP.” They’d all been too focused on the detention scenario, with Snape in all his buttoned-up splendor and poor Harry Potter stuck cleaning cauldrons when he should have been outside playing Quidditch.

Over the next week, Snape visited all the other shops with window displays, even though it meant staring himself in the face and watching the entire Wizarding World laugh at him.

To be honest, very few of the displays poked anything but a tiny bit of fun at him. His favorite, by far, was at Flourish and Botts, which depicted him bundled up in a very comfortable dressing gown, feet resting on an ottoman and reading glasses perched on his nose. He was reading _Most Potente Potions._ The fire crackled merrily before him and he looked comfortable, and dare he say happy?

It was much better than Madam Malkin’s display, which had him prancing about in stylish dress robes, twirling like a ballerina to the tune that played incessantly in the background, “Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies.” He’d be taking his robe business elsewhere in the future, thank you very much.

He’d like to drop _The Daily Prophet_ as well for what they did with their window, but as he depended on his morning paper, he resolved at least to cancel his own subscription and nick someone else’s on his morning walks. The _Prophet’s_ main office window featured some of the most impressive headlines about him, from his arrest all those years ago (_Potions Protégé Nabbed in Death Eater Sting_), to his hiring by Dumbledore at Hogwarts a short time later (_Dumbles Chooses Ex-Con to Teach Children How to Blow Things Up_), to the now infamous Headmaster edition, to his death notice (_Voldemort’s Chosen Headmaster Dead at the Hand of his Snake_). He’d always found that one particularly humorous, as snakes didn’t actually have hands, but in this collection, he found them all rather appalling. The headlines were plastered on the walls around the small figure, which was sitting on a cloud, still in its fine black robes, with a tarnished halo sitting crookedly on its head.

He tried to avoid Diagon Alley after that first excursion. Whether it was Snape in a boat in a cauldron of steaming soup, riding a white dragon, flying about on a broom, sliding on a toboggan, brandishing a wand at Ollivanders that emitted sparks of silver and green and an occasional bat, or turning into a giant canary, then immediately moulting at the Weasley’s own shop window – no matter. All began to cause him a good deal of heartburn. He itched to spell each window into the void, or at least switch out the Snape doll for the Dumbledore model, but he seethed inside and let it be.

It would be over soon. The Release Party was only a week away. 

In the meantime, he had potions to brew, ledgers to balance, and even more thinking to do.

In the end, he decided to let Potter make the decision. He’d given his clue, had showed his hand. The next move was decidedly Potter’s.

His cousin Albert had owled him that he’d be attending the party, too. Potter most likely would believe that Albert Prince was actually Severus Snape Polyjuiced. He’d observe Potter’s behavior with Prince and determine then if a coming out party was worth all the hoopla it would cause.

ooOOOoo

Severus Snape would always remember how Harry Potter smelled that evening, leaning against the wall beside him as they watched Fred Weasley announce the winners of the Shopfront Diorama contest. He’d been loitering at this particular spot by chance when Potter stepped off the stage after his part of the ceremony, and when Potter had settled in beside him he’d seen it as fate tipping its hat in his direction.

Over the years that followed, he wouldn’t often bring up Harry’s over-the-top behavior around Albert Prince. The kissing on the cheek, the photographs, pulling his chair out before the meal. He very seldom mentioned Harry swooning on his shop floor, or the moment he made his best and final decision as Fred announced that Slug and Jiggers had won the grand prize. 

_See you soon, Harry Potter,_ he’d said, grasping Harry’s forearm with his potion-stained fingers and putting every last ounce of Severus Snape into his voice as he uttered _Harry Potter._

But he’d always remember standing there before the announcement, gauging Potter’s reaction to his words, assessing his behavior with Prince, watching the flush rise on his face as he challenged him on the double cheek kiss he’d given Prince on stage. _ So that was a French kiss you gave him?_ He’d remember the smell of the man beside him – it recalled freedom: the smell of outdoors, the wind above the loch, his favourite glade near the edge of the Forbidden Forest, the freshly-dried ink on a roll of parchment.

He knew it was insanity – that Harry Potter couldn’t possibly smell of all of these things, that smell was memory and memory was smell and that the brain was a very tricky thing but he couldn’t deny what it was telling him.

That he’d been alone too long, inside too long, wearing another man’s skin for far, far too long.

He revealed himself to Potter with those words, and suffered through photographs, some beside Potter himself, then slipped away while Potter was being photographed with his cousin, and made his way back to his home with his heart in his hand.

He destroyed the batch of Polyjuice he was brewing the next morning, and began penning what Harry would dub his “love letters.”

Odd love letters they were, then, but Severus Snape was not your typical lover.

_Mr. Potter – In hindsight, I see that piercing your father’s plastic head with his wand was probably not the best way to begin anew with his son. My apologies._

_Mr. Potter – I admit to having no personal knowledge of the clothing preferences of Mr. Lupin and cannot verify that he did, indeed, favour the wearing of his wife’s clothing._

_Mr. Potter – The cauldron bottom in my official gift is a full millimeter shy of regulation thickness, when taken in proportion to a full-scale model. We will discuss this on Saturday.<.i>_

_He’d already made arrangements with WWW to collect his prize – Harry Potter in his shop – on Saturday at 7:30 a.m._

_And what about the Howler? Following the Release Party, the merchants of Diagon Alley had gone hog wild, enhancing their window displays even more. _

__You will put an end date on these ridiculous window displays! I passed by Sugarplum’s today and a Dumbledore figure has been added to the display, force-feeding Snape a sherbet lemon. If an end date of no more than a week from today is not published in the _Daily Prophet_ tomorrow, you can be sure that the Slug and Jiggers window will be enhanced as well!__

_He realised only later that it was the first time Potter had heard his voice – his real voice – since his supposed death all those years ago._

_And his final note, when it was obvious his Howler had been ignored._

_ _Don’t say I didn’t warn you. And please arrive promptly tomorrow morning. We’ve a full day ahead of us.__

__

ooOOOoo

The window Harry saw that morning featured a lovestruck Harry figure, chin in hand, gazing up at Severus Snape. He’d been doodling “Harry J. Snape” on a tiny slip of parchment.

He would never say if he meant it to be a proposal, but Potter took it as such, and there was really never any question of where they were going.

Potter had the audacity to arrive ten minutes early. 

Severus had purchased a new robe at a Muggle department store, similar to the miniature one in the Flourish and Bott’s window display, and was finishing his tea and the morning paper. Potter appeared at his sitting room door, and under Potter’s silent scrutiny, Severus felt extremely naked in this brand-new skin.

Potter, to his credit, didn’t comment immediately on his appearance, not on his grey-streaked hair nor on the ropey scars about his neck.

New skin or old, Snape wasn’t one for great shows of emotion, other than the negative ones. The two sat down to a shared breakfast with a minimal amount of conversation, and Severus was reminded of that old adage – begin as you mean to go on.

Potter proved a worthy conversationalist and though Severus knew that anyone in his position would want to know how he came to be the proprietor of an apothecary when he was supposed to be a pile of ashes and bone, he instead directed the conversation to the Diagon Alley shopkeeper’s guild and proposed changes to the guild’s statutes, which were last amended in 1912.

Potter ate with enthusiasm and wasn’t shy about taking the last sausages after Severus nodded as his fork paused over the platter. His napkin was sometimes in his lap, sometimes on the table, and once or twice on the floor, but at least he used it to wipe the egg off his lip.

Severus, who’d been reading the paper when Harry came in and who still held onto it as a rather handy prop, had stared at the minute bit of egg for several seconds before Potter wiped it away, and surprised both himself and Potter by asking Potter if he’d ever thought about growing a beard. Potter just looked at him curiously and gave him an enigmatic smile.

Potter took a bit of milk in his tea, but no sugar. He devoured several soft-boiled eggs. And while he ate, he looked around the room and commented here and there on an oddity on the mantel or on the painting of the view from the Astronomy Tower.

“A gift from Dumbledore,” Severus had said as they both stared at the piece, then briefly at each other before Harry took a sudden renewed interest in his near empty breakfast plate and Severus shook out his paper and pretended to read it again.

“Have you considered producing the Founders?” Severus asked as the silence stretched thin. He lowered the newspaper enough to see Harry over the top edge.

“Actually, yes,” Harry had answered, engaging smile lighting up his face. Yes – yes indeed. He’d look marvelous with a beard, Severus thought. Short and well groomed at first, a bit of a mustache, but when he was older, long enough to sweep over his shoulder and let blow in the wind behind him when he was on a broom. A lovely salt and pepper beard, with a leather tie midway down.

He was sure Potter would ruin the morning and ask about his mother – it was bound to happen because things were going so well. But Potter avoided the topic like the dragon pox, and instead asked if Severus liked Thai food. He explained that Ginny Weasley’s girlfriend was Thai, and her aunt and uncle ran a great little Thai place in Whitechapel where neither of them would be recognised.

“Are you asking me to dinner?” Severus asked, folding his newspaper and placing it nearly on the table beside his napkin. His voice was even and very matter of fact. Begin as you mean to go on, he told himself. With a clear understanding that this was going to be a casual relationship…or not.

Potter grinned. He eyed his plate, which by now contained only crumbs and a bit of egg shell, then let his brilliant green gaze settle back on Severus. His eyes softened and his smile widened.

“I am,” he said. “Tonight?”

Severus folded the paper and laid it on the table so that the front page photograph of Harry kissing Albert Prince, Jr. was on clear display.

“This restaurant had best be as private as you claim, because you really shouldn’t go out with me so soon after ending your tryst with my cousin.”

Harry yelled “Hey!” and grabbed the paper, and Severus rolled his eyes and warmed up his tea.

Over their many years together, Severus would find Harry as generous as he was stubborn. As hard-working as he was carefree. He had many friends, but put Severus first, yet never sacrificed himself to try to be something he was not. He was a dependable partner, caring and loyal, a giving and energetic lover, and a steadfast friend.

They’d discuss their beginnings over time, and how Severus had cheated death, and why Harry had fought so hard for Severus’ good name after the war. They’d talk about Lily, though briefly, for she was something quite different to each of them, someone whose loss had shaped his own life as sorely as it had shaped Harry’s. Severus would forever hold her memory, if not the flame of desire, and Harry would respect what came before, and be satisfied with his own place in Severus’ heart.

But on that first night after the first day of stepping out in his new skin, after dinner in London with Harry, a shared bottle of wine, and a surprisingly lovely kiss goodnight that made all that new skin a trifle tight, Severus fell asleep alone in bed, but less alone than he’d been in a dozen years. 

In his dreams that night he was only eleven inches tall and trapped in the window of Terror Tours, Diagon Alley’s lone travel agency. He was on the Knight Bus, and Harry was driving, only it wasn’t really Harry – it was James Potter with a lightning bolt scar penned onto his forehead and a wand protruding from the side of his head. And while the miniature bus careened around the window space as if trapped on the Piccadilly roundabout with a stuck accelerator, and tiny Severus held on for dear life, Albus Dumbledore sat on a bench outside, methodically putting out then relighting the dozen street lamps that lined his route. Tonks and Remus were on the bus too, and Frank Longbottom – though Severus only recognised him as he was holding bagpipes, and Mad Eye Moody who skidded down the aisle in a rubbish bin shouting “Constant Vigilance!” 

Only Lily was missing. 

But he got a glimpse of her at last standing beneath a streetlamp, dressed as he’d always longed to see her in Slytherin robes with a silver diadem on her head and a snowy white owl perched on her shoulder. She must have seen him staring out the window, for she waved, then waved again every time the bus came round and passed her again.

Mad Eye Moody slid by again, but he was upside down with one good leg and one wooden leg flailing about above the bin, and his “Constant Vigilance!” sounded more like “Consummate Pigeons!”

Somewhere behind him, bagpipes played and a wolf howled mournfully at the moon.

And even sleeping, Severus began to see the scenario as the metaphor it was. Stuck on a traffic circle, driven by a madman, surrounded by lunatics, the woman he’d thought he’d wanted out of his reach and most probably waving at James and not at him. And look at Albus – doing nothing to help, nothing to rescue them from his ridiculous situation save play with a pretty trinket.

Except – suddenly, Dumbledore was sitting beside him, pocketing the putter-outer.

“Quite sorry, dear boy. It took me a while to get a lock on. Sherbet lemon?”

He held out a miniscule bag of lemon sweets, and Severus chose one with his gripping action fingers, and the bus rolled merrily around one more time before veering off the circle and almost immediately hopping to Diagon Alley.

“Course correction,” said Albus rather pleasantly, and Severus looked up to see his own shop, dark and put to bed, and Harry standing on the pavement before it checking his watch. He knew it was Harry because of the scar and the lack of wand through his skull, and he stood and walked directly off the bus as the rest of the passengers cheered.

His feet never quite touched the ground as his next conscious memory was of waking and sitting up in his bed, staring out the window at the dark streetlight that he swore had been fully illuminated when he put himself to bed that night.

All through their days together, Harry never mentioned the Lily Potter action figure tucked away in Severus’ sock drawer, wrapped in white velveteen, or that he knew that Severus had absconded with several of the fashion accessories and clothing WWW had released for the line several years after their reacquaintance.

And if the Lily inside that drawer was currently wearing Slytherin robes, the Ravenclaw diadem and a necklace of daisies, it was certainly none of Harry’s business at all.


End file.
